


it's what they deserve

by retts



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I say let them fuck and achieve their happily ever after, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, domestic shit, weird non-linear but still linear narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22465162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: ‘Excuse you,’ says Richie in a snotty Voice, ‘I’m the epitome of grace and beauty. Check all of this out, Spaghetti.’‘I’m sorry, but with that nose?’ Eddie waves a hand at the said nose slowly freezing under the gel pack. ‘Not a chance. Even now you’re wearing Hawaiian prints over your shirts. I’m surprised Hollywood didn’t throw you out as soon as they saw you. And for God’s sake, stop calling me Spaghetti. We’re forty years old, Richie.’‘Nuh-uh,’ says Richie, ‘you’ll always be my Spaghetti, Spaghetti. My Baby K. My Shortcake. My Eds.’ That last "my" feels one too many, catching on the tip of his tongue with how possessive it sounds. ‘I mean. Uh.’Eddie gives him a sly look. ‘Smooth,’ he says, ‘and very presumptuous.’
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72





	1. breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> ok, full disclosure: i haven't actually read the books or seen the movies apart from so many gifs and clips that i've shed actual tears over. scary movies trigger my anxiety so badly but i fell in love with eddie and richie and the rest of the losers, but yeah, let me wax on and on about my non-dead gay son and his disaster boyfriend, ok. ok. 
> 
> i cherry pick what i like and run away with it to the depths of hell, so if you cant stand to see me write these characters because i haven't really read or watched it all through, then please click the back button. this won't be for you. 
> 
> also, i've got the next two parts mostly written. hopefully i can finish this before 2020 ends lmao winky face

  
Miraculously, Eddie gets away with a long gash on his shoulder that only needs seven stitches, a week of antibiotics, and plenty of rest to fully heal. It's the exact opposite of Richie's dream where he is too late rolling them over and Eddie is impaled by Pennywise through the chest, dying with one last unspoken secret on his lips that Richie knows will change his life forever if he hears it, except his life changes anyway because Eddie dies and there's really nothing more for him after that. It's Richie's most recurring nightmare even after Eddie follows him back to California and into his guest bedroom.

They don't talk about Eddie moving in with him after Derry 2.0, it just happens. Ben and Bev are the first to leave, hand in hand, and then Mike, then Bill, and Stan doesn't go back to his house but he takes his wife on an airplane and they fly off to see the world. In between the packing and the leaving by everyone else, Eddie stays in his hotel room, shut from the rest of the world most of the time, and Richie is dying to know his plans. He's got all of their numbers in his phone, saves a picture of Eddie flipping him off as his contact photo, and starts a group chat that instantly chimes with a reassuring I STILL REMEMBER ALL OF YOU LOSERS from Bev. The only thing Richie needs to do to get out of this shitty place once and for all is buy a plane ticket back home. Richie will see Eddie again soon because the Losers made another pact to keep in touch and meet up at least once a year, but the idea of even just a day without seeing and hearing Eddie bitch about something makes his chest hollow out in the same way it does when he dreams Eddie is dying. Eventually, when the others are gone and it's only them, Richie convinces himself that Eddie is probably reconciling with his wife behind closed doors and gives up and opens the airline website. Eddie barges into his room without warning, takes one look at Richie's laptop, and simply says, 'Make it two, Trashmouth, and for the love of God, give me the window seat.'

Off they go, Richie _with_ Eddie this time, and it's so surreal Richie only panics when they're ten thousand feet in the air and Eddie is passed out from the sleeping pill he took because he's always hated flying. Richie had urgently called his agent the night he booked the tickets and begged him to send a cleaning crew to Richie's house and have them sweep it from top to bottom, throw away the drugs and cigarettes, the hard liquor but leave the wine, and the porn magazines in his shelf.

('The expired foodstuffs in the fridge need to go, bring in new groceries with a lot of vegetables, kale and that kind of shirt, and also one of those humidifier things with the essential oils.'

'Hey, hey, what's this about? Are you having a breakdown? Is this it? Again?' Todd asks, sounding non-plussed and irate.

Richie chews on his hangnail and shakes his head. 'No, I'm good, now. I'm going home. My friend's coming with me, he's staying for — '

Eddie didn't say how long he's going to be there. Richie's heart thumps and the queasiness he feels goes up another level but it's the good kind of sick, if there's such a thing. Richie probably invented it just now.

' — yeahhhh, look, I know I've been, uh, a lot this past few weeks,' says Richie, thinking about that miserable gig, the botched Netflix deal, disappearing out of the blue, and then abruptly coming back like this.

'Ya think, Rich?' Todd lets out a noisy sigh. 'A serial killer childhood bully, seriously? I still can't believe it.'

'Hmmm,' says Richie evasively. 'You've read the article I sent you. It was him. It. Uh.'

'Fuck it. Netflix's interested in the story, anyway.'

Richie bites down hard on his thumb and he yelps, shakes his hand to settle the pain. 'No way. We'll find another story to make jokes of. Maybe my latent homosexuality? Just not that one, not right now. Get me those things, OK? The kale and tomatoes and humidifier.'

'Sounds like your friend's high maintenance as fuck,' says Todd, sceptical. Then, as Richie's hanging up, 'Your latent fucking _what?_ ')

Richie's a nervous wreck but Eddie is too drowsy to give an opinion on the small house (fuck off, he's not John Mullaney) and it's three bedrooms and a garage with the classic convertible in it. Richie breathes a sigh of relief when he opens the front door and they aren't immediately greeted by the stench of rotten food, bachelordom, and deep, quiet misery — basically the same smell as old, mouldy socks. Eddie removes his shoes by the doorway and after a beat, Richie does the same, resigned for that to become a thing. (He's fucking thrilled, actually. Domestic rituals! With Eddie!)

Richie shows Eddie the guest bedroom, _his_ bedroom now, and Eddy falls face first into the bed after sniffing the sheets for a second, and immediately starts making sleep noises. It's...hideously adorable and Richie reluctantly drops Eddie's luggage by the door as he leaves and just like that, Eddie moves in with him.

A part of Richie — that forgotten teenage boy who'd teased Eddie Spaghetti into outbursts of rage and amusement — expects the whole thing to feel natural but even after their shared history and trauma, Richie and Eddie are essentially strangers to each other. It's kind of exciting because new things are always fun but it's mostly heartbreaking. And fucking confusing. Richie gets flashes of memory of his younger self easily slinging an arm around Eddie, drawing him close to his side, pinching his cheek, carrying him on his back, wrestling with him but now Richie doesn't know how he should act and react when their hands so much as brush over the coffee pot. Eddie looks just as startled as if he's facing the same dilemma.

Back to square one, Richie thinks to himself as Eddie snatches his hand back and his shoulders hunch over and each time Richie expects Eddie to make a run for it but it doesn't happen. Instead, Eddie stays and pours coffee for Richie instead, or hands him the remote, or whatever else they're doing, so maybe it's not quite as hopeless as it seems. After all, out of all the Losers, Eddie decided to leave with Richie, essentially starting their brand new future together as...

Richie doesn't exactly know what they are now, just like when he was a kid and he knew he and Eddie were best friends but there was always something else that lingered in the back of his mind.

Richie, the comedian, thinks it's absolutely hilarious that he only realised he has been in love with Eddie Kaspbrak since he was thirteen after remembering him twenty seven years later. Yeah, so funny, ha fucking ha, he'd hi-five the universe if he could. It makes Richie wonder if he would have figured out his feelings sooner if that devil clown hadn't fucked with their memories. Would he have followed Eddie to New York, done off off Broadway or something, and eventually told Eddie how much —

Nope, Richie can't see it. Can't picture himself ever finding the guts to confess, to risk his best friend in the entire world for the chance to smooch said best friend.

Is a single kiss worth potentially ruining the best thing in your life?

Richie sneaks a glance at Eddie's mouth, full and tense, ready to snap at any given moment. Maybe. It makes Richie sweat pondering this because he's now in a position where that might happen.

He keeps glancing at Eddie, trying to be furtive about it, the way his gaze lingers on Eddie's restless hands and his waist and his ass and his bare feet and his faint morning beard and the curl of his hair behind his ears and the crease in between his eyebrows and his lush little mouth that still is as sharp with his words as ever. It's a lot. Too much, all at once, each and every physical and behavioural detail that Richie's ever found attractive existing in this one person but actually, it's the reverse, the reason Richie finds these things irresistible is because they're all from _Eddie_.

Richie is definitely going to get a stress ulcer soon.

It's stressful as fuck but having Eddie in his life is just about the most amazing thing to happen to him in decades. In the mornings, Eddie wakes up earlier than should be legal, going for a run in the quiet neighbourhood and coming back with pastries from the nearby bakery that Richie loves, makes the coffee, and prepares fruit and eggs. The smell wakes Richie, who rarely eats breakfast that isn't a bowl of Fruit Loops. There's always enough for two people, too. Every good morning becomes less awkward as the days go by, as Richie takes a seat across from Eddie at the breakfast bar and starts his day with banter.

'Watcha doing today, Spaghetti?' Richie asks, shovelling Fruit Loops into his mouth and chewing loudly.

Eddie gives him a dark look. 'Stop being a savage. I'm going to throw away your cereal today.'

'Eds, no, think about the horrible amount of food wastage in the country and you're going to add to it?'

'Don't call me Eds,' Eddie snaps predictably, and Richie laughs and winks at him. 'How about you think about your blood sugar, huh, Tozier?'

'Awww, you do care about me. Come give me a big ol' smooch, lover.'

Eddie wrinkles his nose and eats a forkful of egg whites and flips him off. Richie snickers and grabs a pastry from the bag. He's deathly afraid but there's nothing like joking about his very real desires to maintain the safe distance between them. Richie's a genius.

'Fine, I give up,' he says dramatically, pushing his bowl away and dragging the plate of apple slices towards him. 'Your doe eyes have beaten me to submission, my Eddie. I'll stop eating Fruit Loops and switch to something gross, like oatmeal.'

'Oatmeal is delicious, you just don't know the proper way of making it,' Eddie snarks then pauses. He darts a quick glance at Richie, the top of his nose turns pink, and he mumbles, 'I could...make one for you tomorrow, if you want.'

Richie melts on the inside. He's in so much trouble. He can see the disastrous shit-pile of his future and knows there's no stopping it. He can't stop flirting with Eddie. It's the one thing they fall into as naturally as breathing, picking it up as soon as they meet again like it never stopped, like they never forgot this special blend of meanness and playfulness that's all their own.

Richie all but beams and he's sure he looks like an idiot. 'Awww shucks, you would do that for me? You've got a heart of gold under all of that meanness after all, Eds Kaspbrak.'

'You know what, fuck you. I've changed my mind. Go have your heart attack,' he says with a roll of his eyes but also with a twitch of his lips, suppressing a smile.

Richie whines and pleads and brings out every ounce of immaturity in his body until Eddie is cackling, taking back his words under the threat of tickles. Richie spends the rest of the day in a new kind of high, one he infinitely prefers and should have been feeling all along instead of the drug-induced haze he spent in his twenties and thirties.

The next morning, two weeks into this unexpected cohabitation, Richie wakes up to a bowl of oatmeal and Eddie's arched eyebrows daring him to say anything bad about it. He mimes zipping his mouth shut and picks up his spoon. Richie's diet pretty much consists of junk food, alcohol, cigarettes, and Chinese takeaway. The bowl in front of him is artfully decorated, the kind that he'd see on his Instagram feed.

'What's the stuff on top?' Richie asks, sniffing at the aroma. 'Cinnamon?'

'And brown sugar, some pecans,' says Eddie casually, who has his own bowl.

Richie scoops a spoonful and refrains from making a face at the goopy consistency. He can feel Eddie watching him and gives him a wink, then shoved the spoon into his mouth.

There's an anticipatory silence as Richie chews slowly. Eddie waits for his verdict but pretends not to care as he begins to eat, as well. Richie makes thoughtful noises, holding back a smirk when he sees Eddie sneaking glances at him every time he does.

'Hmmmmm huh,' murmurs Richie, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

Eddie's grip around his spoon tightens and it clatters a little louder than normal against the ceramic bowl when he digs for a spoonful. A surly scowl sits on his mouth, though it looks like he's trying not to let it show.

'OK, you're really gonna make me ask? This is how you want to do this?' Eddie blurts out, snacking the kitchen bar top with his fingers.

Richie smiles guilelessly at him. 'It's good, Eds. Really. Best thing I ever ate for breakfast.'

Eddie shoots him a glare. 'Drop the act, Richie.'

'Scout's honour. Better than Fruit Loops, ten pieces of waffles with honey, and a bacon platter.'

'You were never a scout, dipshit. Jesus, how do you continue to live eating that crap?'

'Beats me. I've been slowly poisoning myself, I guess. My life was only fun because of the bad stuff and no one cared.' Too honest. Shit. Richie shovels a huge dollop before he can say anything else.

Eddie points at him. 'Well, I care, asshole. From now on, no more crap food. You're going to run with me, too.'

Cute, cute, fucking cute. The familiar phrase rings in Richie's head. He feels wonderfully gooey inside, which is new and weird and makes him flex his fingers.

Richie swallows the oatmeal and licks his lips. 'You mean that, Eds?'

'Do I look like I'm joking?' Eddie asks hotly.

 _Do you mean it when you say you care?_ Out loud, 'About going running, do I have to? I feel like that's some sort of punishment. You know, most people would be offended if you try to control their lives like this. No junk food, quit smoking, sleep eight hours a night.'

'I'm so sorry if I want you to live for a long time,' Eddie says sarcastically.

Richie shrugs, his smile lopsided and fond. 'Eh, don't worry about it. I've actually kind of missed the domineering Eddie who wouldn't even let me play with the fireworks that I definitely acquired through legal means. You threw water at me when I tried to light one up.'

Eddie's eyes widen and he wheezes out a laugh. 'Oh, _man_ , I forgot about that. We were such shitty kids back then.'

'Excuse you, I was cool and edgy.'

'Yeah, you, with your Hawaiian shirts and coke-bottle glasses and rusty bicycle, were definitely the definition of bad boy.'

And so their breakfast routine goes, the usual quick affair of Richie standing at the breakfast bar munching on cereal in defeating silence turning into a prolonged argument over the stupidest thing, Richie losing track of time until something, usually Eddie's phone, rings and reminds them that there's a world outside waiting for them.

That day, though, Eddie's phone doesn't ring. Richie pours himself coffee and Eddie drinks something pink and frothy and healthy. The plates are empty, nothing but crumbs leftover on their plates. There's a sense of both of them lingering in the kitchen. Or maybe it's just Richie.

'Want some?' Eddie offers tentatively, gesturing at the glass on the table.

Richie blinks owlishly. 'Um, right out of the same glass?'

'Yes?' Eddie says in a drawn out way, eyebrow cocked up high.

'Isn't that, like, totally unhygienic? Wouldn't you be grossed out with me drinking from the same spot you do? We'd be swapping spit, essentially, and I haven't really brushed my teeth and what about the staph infection — '

Eddie snatches his drink back, which nearly sloshes over his hands. His mouth is in a flat line. 'Jesus, Rich, just say no if you don't want to.'

Richie feels dumb. 'No, no, Eds. I mean, I'd love to try some of your nasty juice.'

Something shifts in Eddie's face and Richie instinctively knows that Eddie isn't annoyed with him anymore.

Richie clears his throat and licks his lips. 'OK, let me have a taste but I warn you, if it's as gross as it looks, I'm spitting it right on this table.'

The corners of Eddie's eyes crinkle. 'Why do you have to be like this all the time? You liked the oatmeal,' Eddie bemoans but he hands over the drink. There's no way around it and Richie accepts, his right hand cradling the bottom of the glass and his left hand wrapping around the base, overlapping Eddie's fingers. Their eyes meet at the exact same time. Richie's heart skips a beat like they do in the movies. Eddie's eyes widen a fraction and he's facing the window and all the morning light seems to gather in their soft brown depths. There's a moment of stillness, both in the air and in Richie's chest.

He could —

Eddie pulls his hands back gently and hides them under the table. Richie licks his lips again and lowers his eyes, nudging his glasses higher up his nose with the back of his hand. He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a cautious sip. It's actually pretty good.

When he looks up, Eddie is watching him back.

'It tastes like shit,' says Richie.

Eddie grins and rolls his eyes. 'You're such a jackass. Give that back. And that's still not how a staph infection works!' Eddie picks up his phone and types something and then thrusts it into Richie's hands. 'There, read it. God, I still can't believe you survived to adulthood.'

Richie obediently looks at the phone. It's the Mayo Clinic article on staph infections. Richie's already laughing even before he finishes reading the title, and Eddie's trying to glare but his lips are tugging upwards, and in the back of Richie's mind, he thinks, _Huh._

_So, that was something._

  
  



	2. the other mrs k

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I’m sorry, but with that nose?’ Eddie waves a hand at the said nose slowly freezing under the gel pack. ‘Not a chance. Even now you’re wearing Hawaiian prints over your shirts. I’m surprised Hollywood didn’t throw you out as soon as they saw you. And for God’s sake, stop calling me Spaghetti. We’re forty years old, Richie.’ 
> 
> ‘Nuh-uh,’ says Richie, ‘you’ll always be my Spaghetti, Spaghetti. My Baby K. My Shortcake. My Eds.’ That last "my" feels one too many, catching on the tip of his tongue with how possessive it sounds. ‘I mean. Uh.’ 
> 
> Eddie gives him a sly look. ‘Smooth,’ he says, ‘and very presumptuous.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with all of the stress in the world today, i decided to make this less angsty than it could be. keep safe, everyone. be like eddie who would definitely chain richie to his chair for self quarantine.

Richie doesn’t really think about Eddie’s wife until Eddie gets a call one day, three days after he moved in. They’re watching one of Richie’s better recorded shows on the TV, Eddie making fun of Richie and Richie dying with embarrassment but still proud whenever Eddie laughs at a joke. Except, Richie remembers Eddie is laughing at jokes made by other people and his good mood sours. They’re not Richie’s original material, Eddie shouldn’t find them _that_ funny. 

Richie is stewing in self-pity when Eddie’s phone rings. The iPhone lies face down on Eddie’s stomach and Eddie startles badly when the device lets out a loud siren that’s pretty much straight out of Silent Hill. 

‘Holy shit, dude, are you trying to give both of us a heart attack?’ Richie demands, his own pulse jumping. 

Eddie picks up the phone and stares at the screen with a tense frown. The ringtone continues to blare. Something about the slow, ominous ribbon of sound gives Richie goosebumps. ‘Eds, buddy, please turn that shit off. You’re giving me flashbacks I do not want.’ 

Blinking, Eddie glances at Richie and nods. ‘Yeah, sorry. I’m, I wasn’t expecting her to call today. Sorry.’ Eddie toggles the mute button on the side and gets up to his feet. He presses the phone to his ear and moves towards the glass screen door, sliding it open and stepping out into the patio. 

Her. 

It doesn’t take a genius to guess the caller, this person who makes every muscle in Eddie’s face tense up like he’s expecting a slap. Most of the time, Richie forgets that Eddie’s married. He does a good job of repressing the knowledge along with other stuff he doesn’t want to deal with. He’s a champ at compartmentalisation.

Richie knows Eddie was unhappy, that he married a woman who is a creepy replica of his abusive dead mother, the implication of which Richie doesn’t want to think about because thinking about Eddie living in a situation similar to his childhood makes him want to break things. Hurt people. Take Bowers, for example. 

_Beep beep, Richie._

Richie wrenches his thoughts away from that pit and takes a deep breath. He rubs at his temples and glances at Eddie, who is now pacing the patio back and forth, his free hand gesticulating forcefully in the air. After a particularly sharp gesture, Eddie rakes his fingers through his hair and grips a tuft of it, tugging in blatant frustration. Richie wants to march out there and take the phone from him and tell her to leave Eddie alone. 

It’s possible that Myra Kaspbrak is a nice person and Eddie is the problem with his many neuroses, but it wouldn’t matter because Richie hates seeing Eddie in distress. Richie used to keep a spare inhaler in his bag when they were in high school in case something ever happened to the one Eddie had in his fanny pack. Richie learned first aid procedures by listening to Eddie (while making it seem like he was ignoring him). Richie actually stopped smoking in junior year when and then took it up again when he left Derry because he forgot why he was curbing his cravings. Richie did this, did that, for Eddie, because of Eddie, never really understanding why he bent and twisted himself for a glimmer of Eddie’s smile. Past-Richie was an idiot, and Present-Richie is even more of one as he readies himself for a fight he has no business fighting.

As Richie watches, Eddie starts to breathe funny, one hand coming to his chest and rubbing it with a grimace. Richie stands and hurries into the guest bedroom — no, to Eddie’s bedroom — and easily finds his inhaler on top of the bedside table. Richie rushes back out and slides the door open, poking only his head and the arm with the inhaler out. Eddie abruptly falls silent when he sees Richie. On the phone, Richie can hear a woman loudly crying. 

‘Sorry I went into your room,’ says Richie, uncurling his fingers. ‘I already shook it for you.’ 

Eddie looks pathetically grateful as he grabs it and brings it to his mouth, medicating twice and holding his breath for a few seconds. It’s so achingly familiar that Richie wants to hug him and rub his back the way he used to as a kid. 

‘Thanks, and don’t worry about it,’ Eddie tells him, offering a weak smile. 

‘I’ll let you finish your call,’ says Richie, suppressing the urge to steal the phone and tell Myra to fuck off. 

Eddie nods, then winces when Myra screams, ‘Who’s that with you? I _knew_ you’ve been cheating on me!’ 

He shouldn’t eavesdrop and Eddie will definitely yell at him if he catches Richie doing it, so Richie flops back down on the sofa and pauses the video on his own face making a stupid expression, mouth wide. ‘Geez, you’ll never get laid with a face like that,’ Richie tells his image on screen. He flips the remote control over and over in his hands. He puts his feet up on the coffee table, nudging the stacks of magazines with his toes until the topmost ones start sliding off. Richie’s knee jiggles and he starts tossing the remote in the air and catching it back. His gaze draws back to Eddie repeatedly, who’s now standing still, head bowed and shoulders slumped. Richie grits his teeth, the pinpricks of anger under his skin making his muscles coil tight. He’s so intent on waiting for Eddie to come back that he jolts when it happens. His hand misses and the remote, long and slim but still weighty, lands squarely on his nose. 

‘Awwwww fuck!’ Richie yells, hands scrabbling at his nose and nearly knocking his glasses off. Mortification gives way to horror when he feels something wet and warm on his fingertips, then feels the same slide down his lips. He automatically licks his mouth and nearly gags at the taste. ‘Shit, shit, shitty shit fuck!’ 

Richie hates blood. No, he loathes it. Despises its very existence outside his body where it does not belong. He’s never been good with blood and when he sees it coating his hands, his vision starts swimming.

‘Christ, Richie, why’d you do that?’ Eddie demands, suddenly appearing with a roll of tissues in one hand as the other tears out a long strip. 

Richie can feel his blood fucking dripping from his chin and he tilts his head back to stem the flow. 

Eddie shrieks, ‘No!’ and Richie instinctively freezes. Eddie glares at him. ‘Lower your head, idiot, or you’re going to choke on your own blood. OK, uh, you have to pinch your nose firmly, alright? To help stop the bleeding. OK, that’s it, hold this for me for a sec.’ A thick wad of tissue presses lightly under Richie’s nose. 

Eddie takes a step back and skirts around the coffee table and Richie follows him with his gaze as he heads to the kitchen. The house is open plan so Richie can see everything from where he’s sitting. Eddie opens the freezer and takes out an ice pack from its depths. Richie can guess where it came from since he’s pretty sure there used to be only a bag of peas there, long since expired and eventually thrown out in the frenzied cleaning before Eddie moved in.

Eddie comes back and sits on the coffee table in front of Richie. Richie scoots closer at Eddie’s beckoning until his thighs bracket Eddie’s own, and Richie ignores how much he likes that. Eddie leans forward a bit as he gently presses the ice pack on top of Richie’s nose. The cold stings and burns lightly but Richie is too caught up in the ferocious worry etched on Eddie’s face. It tugs open his memory banks and he’s suddenly transported to Eddie’s bedroom in Derry, with himself sitting on the floor and Eddie kneeling in front of him, a first aid kit open between them. 

It’s the summer of 1991 and they’re fifteen years old. 

‘I can’t believe you did that!’ Eddie whisper-shouts because his mother is downstairs. His face is twisted in anger but his bottom lip quivers and his eyes are damp and vulnerable. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Richie!’ 

They’re both banged up but Richie more than Eddie, which Richie is glad for even though he hates that Eddie still got hurt at all. 

Richie pushes Eddie’s hands away. ‘Fix yourself first. And I told you to run away, why didn’t you listen to me?’ 

Eddie scowls and shakes his head, shoving past to dab ever so gently on Richie’s bleeding lip. ‘How could I leave you with Bowers and his gang circling like vultures over a dead body?’ 

‘Easily! The whole point of me rescuing you is so you don’t get hurt but look at you!’

There’s a pink mark on Eddie’s chin, a small scrape on his collarbone, his shirt crumpled, hair a mess, and Richie knows Eddie’s side hurts because he limped back to his house, dragging Richie with him. 

Eddie’s eyebrows climb up into his hairline and he almost shouts but then remembers his mother is downstairs just in time. Those caterpillar eyebrows quiver in anger. ‘Me? Look at _you_ , Richie, you couldn’t even stand after they were through with you!’ 

‘I don’t care about me as long as you’re fine!’ 

‘Well, I don’t — no, I care about me _and_ I care about you being fine! You can multi-task! Fuck, you’re such a fucking idiot.’ 

Richie’s cheeks feel hot and he stammers, ‘You don’t have to care for me.’ 

‘Shut the fuck up, dipshit, and take off your shirt.’ 

Richie grins, splitting open the cut on his lip once more, and bunches his shirt up to his armpits. ‘Eddie Spaghetti, you’ve grown up so fast!’ 

Eddie looks unimpressed, maybe even homicidal. Still, his fingers are achingly gentle as they probe Richie’s rib cage. Richie thinks about pretending to faint to tease Eddie but there’s such genuine distress on his face that it just leaves Richie feeling tender inside in a way that’s distinctly different from the bruises Bowers and his gang left on him. Richie nearly lost his goddamn mind when he saw Eddie being surrounded by Bowers and his lackeys and he would take another beating if it means keeping Eddie safe. 

Eddie’s fingers brush something sore on his right side and Richie immediately flinches. Of course, completely avoiding Bowers in the future works for him just as well. 

‘I hate that you’re hurt because of me,’ Eddie mumbles with his head ducked low so Richie can’t see his face with his hair in the way.

Richie has to sit on his hands to keep them from reaching for Eddie and _just_ – ‘More than anything else in this world, I hate that you _still_ got hurt despite my best efforts, so I win. What’s my prize?’ 

‘You’re the biggest idiot I know, Richie.’ 

‘That’s the sweetest — fuck, Eds, warn a guy before you dump that shit on him, that goddamn hurts, man!’ 

Eddie breaks out into a smile and a laugh, a combo with bonus points, and Richie pouts at him for sympathy, and –

The memory cuts off as pain blooms on Richie’s nose, and he ducks away with a grimace. 

‘Sorry,’ says Eddie instantly, although his mouth starts to curl upwards when Richie’s injury proves to be non-life threatening and actually just very embarrassing. ‘It’s not broken, though there’s a bit of swelling. What was _that_ , Richie?’ 

Richie keeps holding the gel pack to his face. ‘I think the remote’s possessed, Eds. It has a mind of its own and it’s out to get me.’ 

‘Or you’re just clumsy as fuck,’ Eddie points out with a small laugh. 

Richie inwardly pumps his fist. Cheering up Eddie in a minute and all he had to do was sustain a minor injury to his face, _easy_. Eddie is still between Richie’s legs, too, still leaning towards him, still focused on him. It makes Richie thrive. 

‘Excuse you,’ says Richie in a snotty Voice, ‘I’m the epitome of grace and beauty. Check all of this out, Spaghetti.’ 

‘I’m sorry, but with that nose?’ Eddie waves a hand at the said nose slowly freezing under the gel pack. ‘Not a chance. Even now you’re wearing Hawaiian prints over your shirts. I’m surprised Hollywood didn’t throw you out as soon as they saw you. And for God’s sake, stop calling me Spaghetti. We’re forty years old, Richie.’ 

‘Nuh-uh,’ says Richie, ‘you’ll always be my Spaghetti, Spaghetti. My Baby K. My Shortcake. My Eds.’ That last "my" feels one too many, catching on the tip of his tongue with how possessive it sounds. ‘I mean. Uh.’ 

Eddie gives him a sly look. ‘Smooth,’ he says, ‘and very presumptuous.’ 

Richie wants to kick himself. ‘Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.’ 

Eddie’s hands are on his knees, his fingers curling and uncurling. The ice pack starts slipping from Richie’s fingers and he puts it down beside him, the cold leeched away by his nose. The silence is thick enough Richie could take a bite out of it. It’s not uncomfortable but it’s definitely not the easygoing playfulness a few seconds ago. There’s something thoughtful in Eddie’s eyes, as if he’s close to figuring Richie out and when he does, Richie is sure that Eddie will pack his bags and leave, leaving Richie alone again with his memories intact. Eddie will stay at the fringes of his life instead of directly in the centre of it. 

Feeling desperate, Richie blurts out, ‘So, what did your wife want to talk about?’ 

The tension snaps back to Eddie’s body and Richie realises how relaxed Eddie is around him. Or was. Wow, Richie really should give his own ass a sound beating. He wants to take the question back and return to the slightly uncomfortable moment of Richie claiming Eddie as his, but a part of Richie also wants to know the answer. Is Richie pining after a married man? Does it even make a difference to Richie? 

The answer is no. It’s _Eddie_. 

Eddie lets out a short breath and rubs at his eyes. ‘Yeah, uh, we should probably talk about that.’ 

‘We don’t have to,’ Richie says, ‘but I’m only saying that to seem like a good person.’ 

Eddie ignores him. ‘I owe you an answer at least. You let me stay here and I didn’t even ask you. It’s a shitty thing to do. I’m taking advantage of you.’ 

Richie shakes his head vehemently and grabs Eddie’s hand — huh, why did he do that? Nothing to be done about it now — and gives it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t sound so defeated, Eds, it’s not like you. Of course you’re welcome to stay, you don’t need to ask, which you didn’t, and you’re always very welcome here, which proves my point. My casa is your casa.’ He licks his lips, acutely aware of the five soft, fine-boned, well-manicured fingers in his own ugly grip. Richie starts to ramble: ‘I mean, I’d like to think if I moved in with you out of the blue you’d accept me with open arms but let’s face it, you would bitch endlessly even as you make the bed for me with the sheets you hand-washed yourself. All you’re doing is highlighting how amazing a friend I am.’ 

Eddie gapes at him. ‘Jesus, have you literally never second-guessed the words coming out of your mouth?’ 

‘Nope,’ says Richie, popping the p. He’s profoundly aware that Eddie hasn’t pulled his hand away and is in fact turning it until their fingers slot loosely together. Richie tries not to freak out. Friends do this, he tells himself sternly; really close, platonic, non-sexual, spiritual bros hold hands interlocked-style all the time. 

‘What I’m trying to say,’ Eddie says, ‘is I’m getting divorced. I’m divorcing Myra. We are divorcing each other.’ 

Richie feels like he’s been knocked back by a giant demon clown, which he’s actually experienced before. It takes him three times to get a word, any word, past his suddenly tight throat. What do normal people say when their friends announce this kind of life-changing event? ‘Shit, Eds, I’m so sorry.’ 

‘You’re _sorry?_ ’ Eddie says incredulously. 

Richie nods dumbly. ‘It’s what people say, right? But I’m only sorry because that’s an awful thing to go through. Screw your soon to be ex-wife. She treated you the way your mom did, like you’re an extension of her.’ 

Eddie looks furious for 2.4 seconds before he deflates and gives a weary chuckle. ‘How would you know?’ he mutters sullenly, eyes downcast. 

Richie brushes his thumb across the nearest knuckle he can reach. ‘When we met again, you reminded me exactly of your thirteen-year-old self with the placebos and shit. It wasn’t pretty.’ 

Eddie frowns at their clasped hands. ‘Is that why you were such a jackass?’ 

_You married a woman?_

‘I’m always a jackass, you gotta be more specific, Eddie.’ 

Eddie sighs. ‘Never mind.’ 

Richie clears his throat. He silently begs any benevolent deity still willing to help him to keep his hand dry. Eddie is definitely the kind of person who hates a sweaty grip. ‘Do you need a drink? A shoulder to cry on? Because I can call Ben on Skype for you. He’s great at that feelings crap.’ 

‘God, no,’ says Eddie, looking revolted at the mere thought of sharing his feelings with another human being. 

‘Oh, good. I might have to start charging you by the hour if you unburden yourself on me.’ 

‘If I ever decide to go to therapy, you’ll be one of the things I talk about.’ 

‘Aww, babe, please tell me I made it to the top 10?’ 

Babe? Richie’s mind screams at him but he pushes through it, ignoring the way Eddie startles at the pet name. Richie used to call Eddie "my love" as a kid, why should "babe" be different? It’s really not. Nope. Just one of Richie Tozier’s many nicknames for one of his many friends who are absolutely all equal in importance in his life. 

Slowly, even as it kills him, Richie slides his hand out of Eddie’s grip. Eddie doesn’t stop him but he watches their hands disengage with an unreadable look on his face. Richie curls his hand into a fist to keep the memory of Eddie’s touch. 

Richie tries a nonchalant grin and misses about a mile. ‘Sooooo, have you seen my one time only episode on SNL where I spectacularly fucked up?’

**Author's Note:**

> <333
> 
> clarespace.tumblr.com


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